“Captain’s Log, Stardate 80195.62:

Thirty-two hours into accelerated departure preparations, Valor is finally coming back into her own. Most of the major discrepancies identified during acceptance have either been corrected or reduced to restrictions we can safely carry into trials.

Lieutenant Winslow reported aboard shortly before noon and has taken charge of Operations. She arrived with Lieutenant Junior Grade Sienna Marlowe, our new Flight Control Officer, who has already begun working through the departure profile and maneuvering plan. With both officers aboard, the senior staff is nearly complete; Lieutenant Commander Stratton is expected to join the ship by transport within the week.

Starbase Nine expects us underway at twenty-one hundred. At this point, so do I.”

Kincaid moved through the main passageway on Deck Three at an easy pace with his hands clasped behind his back as he observed engineering crews restoring bulkhead covers for departure.

“Captain,” Lieutenant Catherine Winslow, Valor’s new Operations Officer, approached from the opposite direction with a PADD tucked beneath her right arm.

“Walk with me, Lieutenant.” Kincaid ordered.

Winslow fell into step beside him to his immediate left.

“What’s on your mind, OPS?” Kincaid gestured to the PADD.

“Personnel accountability is complete. One hundred aboard, with two of our people still processing through the starbase. Both are enlisted replacements and should be across the brow within the hour.” Winslow handed him the PADD.

“Stores?”

“Medical has everything Doctor Ellison marked critical including a fully functional fourth biobed. Engineering has received the deuterium governor spares  Chief Engineer Calloway requested. Tactical Systems is still waiting on two replacement indexing actuators for the forward torpedo-transfer system, but Lieutenant Danner says they are not required for departure.”

“Fuel?”

“Our deuterium reserves are at ninety-four percent; Antimatter pods are topped off and secure. Potable Water, replicator stores, and emergency consumables are all within deployment limits.”

Kincaid scrolled farther.

“Why is our cargo and allowed equipage manifest yellow?

“According to Starbase Nine Logistics, we have fourteen metric tons of sensor-processing equipment aboard that belongs to the USS Mariner.”

“Why?”

“Because someone entered berth nine-seven instead of berth seven-nine.”

“Where is it?”

“Cargo Bay Two.”

“And our equipment?”

“Berth seven-nine.” Winslow’s expression tightened.

“On the Mariner?” Kincaid shook his head.

“No, sir. Fortunately, the Mariner noticed before loading it.”

“How fortunate.”

“They are sending ours over now.”

“And theirs?”

“On the deck outside Cargo Bay Two waiting for transport back across the brow.”

“Anything else?”

“Starbase Operations still lists Commander Thatcher as the approving authority on three departure clearances.”

Kincaid glanced toward her.

“That was corrected during the change of command.”

“On the ship. Not apparently in Logistics, Traffic Control, or Environmental Services.”

“Can you fix it?”

“I already did.”

“Then why tell me?” Kincaid handed the PADD back to Winslow.

“So when someone calls you in twenty minutes insisting we cannot depart because Commander Thatcher has not approved our waste-storage manifest, you know why.”

“You’ve been aboard five hours.”

“Five hours and twenty-three minutes.”

“And you are already anticipating arguments with the starbase.”

“I was told that was a shipboard tradition.” Winslow tucked the PADD back under her right arm.

“You’ll fit in nicely, Lieutenant.” Kincaid afforded Winslow a faint smile.

They approached the turbolift at the end of the passageway and strode into the lift as the doors parted.

“Bridge.” Kincaid ordered.

The turbolift doors closed before it began moving up the lift network.

“How is Operations otherwise?” Kincaid asked.

“Operations Department has been operating around the yard instead of as a ship. One of my enlisted specialists has spent the last eleven days standing starbase security watches because no one recalled him.”

“Did you?”

“An hour ago.”

“Good.”

“The bigger problem is that Operations hasn’t had the chance to function as a department yet.”

“That changes tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

The turbolift doors parted as they walked onto the bridge.

The Bridge was built around a tight command well. Kincaid’s chair occupied the raised center platform behind Flight Control and the main viewscreen, with Tactical positioned directly behind the command platform. Operations, Science, and Engineering filled the surrounding stations beneath dark structural ribs and cool blue displays.

Diagnostic overlays crowded part of the viewscreen while engineering specialists worked alongside the bridge crew at Tactical and Flight Control. Most of the aft access panels were back in place.

Lieutenant Alvarez stood at Science coordinating a calibration run with lateral sensor control, while Lieutenant Danner occupied Tactical with Chief Meeks at his shoulder.

Meeks pointed to something on the tactical display. Danner shook his head. Meeks pointed at the display again, and this time Danner leaned closer. Neither looked pleased.

“Good news, Lieutenant?” Kincaid approached tactical.

“Good news with qualifications, Captain”

“Go on.”

“We cycled the forward torpedo-handling system through the second-junction assembly twelve times with inert loads. No binding.”

“And the live casing?”

“We ran it at fourteen hundred. Twenty-seven cycles accomplished without binding.” Meeks said.

“That sounds like good news.”

“It is,” Danner said.

“Then what is the qualification?” Kincaid asked.

Danner changed the display. “The rail passed static testing. I still haven’t seen it under maneuvering load.”

“We can’t maneuver in the berth.”

“Exactly.”

“You’ll release it for departure?” Kincaid studied the results.

“Yes.”

“Combat?”

“No, Captain.”

“Chief Meeks?” Kincaid asked.

“I trust it more than I did yesterday.” Meeks nodded.

“That wasn’t the question.”

“Yes, Captain. I concur with Lieutenant Danner.”

Kincaid turned back to Danner.

“Annotate the restriction. No rapid-cycle loading and no tactical exercises until you’ve tested it under maneuvering load.” Kincaid ordered.

“Aye, Captain.”

Meeks glanced at Danner. “You owe me five strips of latinum.”

“For what?” Danner frowned.

“I told you he’d ask me separately.”

“I never took that bet.”

“You heard the terms of the bet and didn’t object to them.”

“That is not how wagers work.”

Meeks looked to Kincaid. “Captain?”

“I want no part of this.”

“Yes, sir.” Meeks smirked.

Kincaid continued toward the command platform.

“Captain,” Lieutenant Commander Calloway called out as he strode onto the Bridge from the starboard side turbolift.

“Tell me.”

“Secondary deuterium transfer systems passed full-flow testing at sixteen forty-two.”

“Pressure spikes?”

“None.”

“What about the Deuterium system Governor?”

“Stable.”

“Transporter Two?”

“Completed full-cycle certification thirty minutes ago.”

“Deck Six?”

“Fourteen compartments remain empty. Environmental systems have been stable for fifty-one hours now, but Doc Ellison wants another sleep cycle before we repopulate them.”

“Agreed.”

Calloway nodded. “Then the Engineering Department has no objections to getting underway.”

“No qualifications?”

“None that would preclude our twenty-one hundred departure.”

“Very well.” Kincaid nodded.

Calloway glanced toward Winslow, already buried in the departure checklist.

“You find the cargo problem, Winslow?”

“Which one?”

“That bad?”

Winslow looked over her shoulder. “Since I spoke to the Captain a few minutes ago, Engineering has somehow acquired six pallets of polymer sealant.”

Calloway frowned. “We don’t have six pallets of polymer sealant.”

“The manifest disagrees.”

“The manifest’s been wrong all week.”

“Then it has four hours to become accurate.”

Calloway looked at Kincaid. “She’s been aboard just over five hours.”

Kincaid allowed himself a faint smile. “I noticed.”

Kincaid stepped onto the command platform and took the center chair.

The bridge had not settled completely. Technicians still moved between stations, and engineering diagnostics remained open alongside standard bridge functions. It lacked the quiet rhythm Kincaid cultivated as Executive Officer aboard the Unification.

Kincaid looked toward the main viewscreen. Starbase Nine filled most of it, the berth structure surrounding Valor in overlapping frameworks of light and metal.

“Time?” Kincaid asked.

“Seventeen fourteen,” Winslow answered without looking away from her console.

“Departure still twenty-one hundred?”

“Traffic Control has us cleared for twenty-one hundred precisely. We will hold the Navigation Brief at nineteen thirty on the Bridge, station the maneuvering detail at twenty hundred, begin disconnecting shore services at twenty-fifteen, and retract the access brow at twenty-thirty.”

“Very well. How many Yard personnel are still aboard the ship, CHENG?”

“Thirty-seven still aboard, Captain,” Calloway reported.

Kincaid looked at him. “Thirty-seven?”

“We had eighty-two at noon.”

Kincaid rose from his chair.

“I want nonessential yard personnel off the ship by nineteen hundred. Anyone remaining aboard after that requires your express authorization.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Winslow, I want our stores issues sorted out by eighteen forty-five.”

“Aye, sir.” Winslow turned back to Operations as her console chirped.

“Captain.” Winslow reported.

Kincaid glanced toward her. “Don’t tell me.”

“Starbase Logistics. They want Commander Thatcher’s authorization on the waste-storage manifest.”

“How long did that take?” Kincaid exhaled through his nose.

“About eight minutes, sir.”

“Lieutenant.”

“Yes, Captain?”

“You predicted it. You own it.”

“With pleasure, sir.”  Winslow allowed herself a small smile as she turned back toward her console.

Kincaid settled back into the Captain’s Chair. He called up the ship’s chronometer on the display built into the right armrest.

Three hours, forty-three minutes to departure.